The air is cool. I shiver. That’ll change when I’m slumped over the press like a god damned dummy. I like to think my destiny is the words I type, but there’s as great a chance I’ll die with a squeegee in my hand. It doesn’t matter, I face it all, I eat it up I spit it out, I do it my way.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment